


and this, and so much more

by NoRationalThoughtRequired



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Flower Crowns, Geralt POV, Geralt Submits to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Implied Immortality, Introspection, Jaskier in Kaer Morhen, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Soft Geralt, The Inherent Eroticism of Teaching Someone Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28383759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoRationalThoughtRequired/pseuds/NoRationalThoughtRequired
Summary: It's not what Geralt had expected, traveling with a bard.He didn't expect to teach Jaskier all about being a Witcher. He didn't expect to learn from him in return. He didn't expect to love him.Or: Geralt and Jaskier travel together and learn from each other and learn (and love) each other.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 46
Kudos: 464
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	and this, and so much more

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the [Witcher Secret Santa Exchange](https://thewitchersecretsanta.tumblr.com/), this fic is for [lets-play-gwent](https://lets-play-gwent.tumblr.com/), who enjoys buffskier and soft Geralt! There's only a little bit of buffskier in this fic, but a _whole lot of_ Soft Geralt! Hope you enjoy!!
> 
> Super special thanks to the very awesome [supermagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supermagpie/pseuds/supermagpie), [MajorTrouble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble), and [Poe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe) for cheerleading, making wonderful suggestions, and wrangling the most egregious of my run-on sentences!
> 
> Title is courtesy of T.S. Eliot's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_.

They’re hours out of Posada when night begins to fall and Geralt guides Roach over to a copse of trees, far enough off the trail to not be visible, close enough that he can hear if trouble happens upon them.

The bard follows along behind and, without being told, sets his belongings aside and starts searching the area for twigs and discarded branches to make up a fire, humming that damned song under his breath all the while.

_Huh_ , Geralt thinks as he removes the saddlebags from Roach, irritation at the bard’s continued presence warring with surprise at his helpfulness and bemusement at the entire situation in which he has found himself.

Surprisingly, the bard even manages to get the fire going by himself, no surreptitious application of Igni from Geralt necessary. Geralt turns towards the forest, pretending to scout their surroundings so the bard can’t see the smile that’s threatening to curl at the corner of his lips, entirely without his input and consent.

The bard sprawls out along one side of the fire, gangly and coltish with youth, and Geralt remembers those days, decades in the past though they may be, when he felt as though he wasn’t quite in control of his limbs and how long they were. He masters the unwanted smile and schools his features into a scoff as he turns back around.

The bard digs into his small pack and lobs an apple across the fire to Geralt. “ _Toss an apple to your Witcher, O’ Valley of Plenty_ ,” he sings, his cocky smirk betraying just how pleased he is with his lyrical prowess.

Geralt doesn’t bother to hide his sigh. This is going to get old quickly, he can already tell.

“It occurs to me,” the bard says, fiddling with the cap to his waterskin, “that I have been remiss in my manners. I never even introduced myself! The name’s Jaskier, bard extraordinaire, at your service. I am very pleased to meet your acquaintance, Geralt of Rivia, and that of Miss Roach, too, of course.”

His voice is lofty, as though he is announcing himself to a queen or a great mage rather than a Witcher who still has dust and blood caked in his hair from the day’s adventures.

Geralt grunts and considers allowing the conversation to die a quick death after the bard’s--no, _Jaskier’s_ \--introduction. But he has an apple in his hand, and Roach had been given the best oats Posada had to offer before they left the town, and his purse is full of more coin than he’s seen in three months thanks to Jaskier and his stupid song (complete with its revisionist history), so perhaps he owes this bardling more than stony silences and impenetrable indifference.

“Well met, Jaskier,” he says, and there’s a strange twinge in his chest at the way the bard positively lights up at not being ignored. He can’t meet Jaskier’s eyes, gone soft in the flickering firelight, and he suddenly feels an overwhelming need to inspect the laces on one of his boots.

“Well met, indeed!” Jaskier says, and Geralt doesn’t have to be looking at him to know that an exuberant grin now rests on his face. “So, as we travel together, you must tell me everything, absolutely _everything_ , there is to know about being a Witcher. I need to know it all if I’m going to be able to accurately chronicle your adventures.”

Geralt glances up, sharp, piercing. “Accurately?”

Jaskier shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Well, for a given value of accuracy, anyway.” He winks in a way that suggests that some grievously misinformed soul once told him it was charming. “All the best songs are based in truth and then . . . embellished, let’s say, to suit audience sensibilities.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“Your skepticism is noted, and I look forward to proving you wrong.” Jaskier finishes his own apple with a flourish. He stretches his legs out, curling his toes in his boots, and looks up at the stars twinkling above them, winking in mischief at the follies of human and Witcher alike. “Do you know, Geralt,” he says, his voice soft, low, nearly dreamy, “I suspect that, if you give me a chance, we might become the very best of friends.”

Geralt doesn’t think that’s very likely, but even he knows it’s poor manners to say so. Jaskier drags his eyes from the heavens above, and he winks again, this time less roguish, more companionable.

That strange little twinge is back in Geralt’s chest.

A Witcher and a bard, the very best of friends?

The idea is simply ridiculous. But, well, perhaps stranger things have happened.

  
  


*

  
  


It’s not what Geralt had expected, traveling with a bard.

He laughs to himself as soon as he thinks the thought. As if the notion of walking the Path with a young bard just out of training at Oxenfurt is a reasonable thought to cross the mind of a Witcher; the _Butcher of Blaviken_ , no less.

Jaskier is annoying, it’s true. He’s utterly impossible to wake before dawn. He complains incessantly whenever a pebble gets caught in his boot. He flirts with absolutely everyone and hardly a town goes by without him finding his way into someone’s bed for the evening. He sings and does vocal exercises practically non-stop, and when he’s not singing, he’s strumming his lute, minutely adjusting one of the pegs only to adjust it back before they’ve traveled a hundred meters down the road.

Geralt could go on.

(And he has, in fact, _gone on_ over the months that they have been traveling together. Loudly, and at length.

It’s at the point now where Jaskier just gives him a sunny smile and starts mouthing the most commonly expressed complaints along with Geralt.)

Jaskier is annoying, and he is irritating, and he causes Geralt all manner of vexation.

And yet, and yet.

When they make camp, he sits closer than he did that first night, on the same side of the fire as Geralt, his eyes soft, inquisitive, as he presses his quill to his sheaf of parchment, prepared to take copious notes, and asks, “Can you teach me about the bruxa?”

The bruxa, the archgriffin, the brightness of the sun in Toussaint. The harshness of the sea on the way to the Skellige Islands, the song of the siren, the trip sailing on the Pontar after a contract left him more flush with coin than he had expected. The mystery of Brokilon, the terrible and tragic wrath of the noonwraith, the nasty nest of alghouls in the foothills of the mountains of Kovir that nearly did him in.

Jaskier’s curiosity is insatiable. He hadn’t been lying that first night, when he had said that he wanted to know it all. No creature is too ordinary, no corner of the Continent too commonplace. If it has happened to Geralt, if Geralt has experienced it, Jaskier wants to know about it.

There’s something about the way he phrases it-- _can you teach me?_ \--that softens that twinge in Geralt’s chest, rounds out its sharp edges. Geralt can’t quite put a finger on _why_. Maybe it’s the acknowledgement that, in this realm, Geralt is the expert, or maybe the thrill of a non-hostile audience, or maybe the simple fact that, for once, someone cares to listen. Geralt has words to say, and someone has actually asked to hear them. Whatever it is, he likes these nights; the fire crackling before them, Roach grazing steps away, the stars smiling down upon them, as Jaskier slowly draws the information, halting, stumbling, out from him. Tales about creatures, places he’s been, battles he has fought and fights he has won.

(He didn’t expect to like them, these conversations. He doesn’t like to talk, never has, not since before he came into Vesemir’s care, not since Visenna left him on that road, alone, abandoned. It’s better to stay quiet, keep his thoughts, his opinions to himself. It’s easier to protect his heart if he pretends that he doesn’t have one.

He reminds himself of this frequently, and yet he seems to forget it every time he finds himself around a campfire with Jaskier.)

And the words Jaskier weaves from the stories Geralt tells?

To say they’re romanticized is putting it mildly. The heroic Witcher, surrounded and outnumbered, taking on a fearsome creature, suffering grievous wounds in the process, always saving the fair maiden. (Or the fair lad, Jaskier sometimes sings with a wink, a flirtatious spark in those blue eyes, starting to settle into his charm). In these tales Geralt brings prosperity back to the town, he delivers them all from ruin. The songs bear little resemblance to the histories he recounts for Jaskier, shrouded in metaphor and more flowery language than Geralt’s heard in a decade.

There might be magic in Jaskier’s words, though. Villagers and townspeople hear the phrase _toss a coin_ and they start humming the rest of the lyric, as if it’s entered their very consciousness and they no longer have to think about it. When an alderman tries to shortchange Geralt after successful completion of a contract, all Jaskier has to do is strum the first chords on his lute and the alderman, shamefaced and sheepish, pays full price. Not only that, it’s been two months since even Geralt’s Witcher hearing has heard someone whisper _butcher_ when they foolishly think he can’t hear it.

It seems Jaskier hadn’t been overstating his ability to restore reputations.

Geralt watches the dying embers from the fire cast their waning light across Jaskier’s sleeping face, carefully counts _one-two-three-three-two-one_ as Jaskier’s chest rises and falls. Deep in the wilds of Nazair, the stars the only witnesses to the expression on his face that might be approaching _fond_ , he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he has somehow happened upon a bit of good luck.

Luck in the form of a bard, who would have thought?

  
  


*

  
  


The first time he goes back to Kaer Morhen after making Jaskier’s acquaintance, the quiet in the old, crumbling keep is nearly oppressive. Only Vesemir and Eskel are in residence this particular winter, and after mornings spent hunting or honing their fighting skills, both are content to retreat to remote corners of the keep and read or whittle or tinker with various Witcher-related potions and decoctions.

It’s comforting, being in their presence, it always is, but this season it’s also almost lonely, in a way. As though Geralt has spent too long with a constant hum of background chatter in his ears, and now, with that chatter clear across the Continent at Oxenfurt, or Novigrad, or Vizima, or wherever Jaskier had said that he planned to install himself, he’s left with silence and naught but his thoughts to keep him company.

Discomfited, he wanders down to the stables with greater frequency than usual, and, well, if he hums _he’s a friend to humanity_ under his breath while he mucks out the stalls and freshens up the hay, he’s reasonably confident that neither Roach nor Scorpion will tell anyone of his descent into folly.

  
  


*

“Alright,” Jaskier says, flexing his fingers and dancing them above the clumps of herbs and berries and crushed flowers spread out before him on the bed. He surveys them carefully, his brow furrowed. Geralt, very deliberately, does not smile at the intense concentration on Jaskier’s face. “The missing ingredient is . . . _that one_!”

He points, with great certainty and assuredness, to a group of berries second from the end of the display.

“You would be correct . . . “ Geralt begins, watching delight, mixed in with a not insignificant amount of smugness, dawn on Jaskier’s face, “ . . . if your goal was to actually poison me, not render me immune from poisons.”

Jaskier wilts, his shoulders slumping, and his expression of utter dejection is so comical, Geralt can’t help but laugh.

Jaskier reaches over to grab a leather-bound notebook, newly purchased on his last trip through the markets of Novigrad, and he scans the scrawling script that makes up his entry for the composition of Golden Oriole. Geralt watches, intent, as Jaskier runs a finger down the list of ingredients, as his gaze flicks over the piles of possibilities on the bed, as he flips to the section of the notebook where he has painstakingly sketched different herbs and flowers and their uses in various potions and poultices.

“Ah, damn it,” Jaskier huffs, reaching the end of the ingredients list and seeing where he went astray. He tosses his notebook onto the pillow. “Why do I always want to put those blasted red berries into everything?”

“You’re distracted by shiny, pretty things?”

Jaskier snorts a laugh. “Well, that is undoubtedly true.”

There’s a self-deprecating edge to Jaskier’s words that Geralt finds that he does not like. He’s not quite sure why. He doesn’t understand Jaskier. He doesn’t understand why he wants to learn how to make Witcher potions. He doesn’t understand why Jaskier, every time he sees some new species of flora on their travels, insists on stopping and cataloguing it in his notebook himself and asking _Geralt_ for an explanation of its uses and properties when he could easily walk into any bookseller in any of the great capitals of the Continent and purchase a lavishly decorated volume with far more detail than Geralt could ever provide. He doesn’t understand why Jaskier has him make up these silly little quizzes to test his knowledge. He doesn’t understand why Jaskier _cares_.

He doesn’t _understand_.

Maybe, maybe, Jaskier is not the only one allowed to be curious. Maybe he can ask questions, too.

“Why are you so insistent on learning how to make these potions anyway?” Geralt busies himself so he doesn’t have to meet Jaskier’s eyes, sweeping up the deadly nightshade and storing it in a special pouch. “These are Witcher potions. Only Witchers know how to make them. Well, and some of the more trusted apothecaries and healers and mages. This is not common knowledge.”

“Oh, well, I cannot resist learning a little bit of _un_ common knowledge,” Jaskier says, an impish grin starting to tug at the corner of his lips.

Geralt stares at him, silent, until Jaskier sighs. His gaze darts around the room, and it’s obvious, even to Geralt, that he’s deciding just how truthful he wants to be.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted. Traveling with someone,” Jaskier begins. He looks down at his hands, resting in his lap, and becomes very interested in the way his thumbnail scrapes against the pad of his index finger. “I know you didn’t want some flighty kid trailing along behind you, constantly talking, writing and rewriting verses aloud, trying out and discarding rhymes.”

“You don’t strike me as particularly flighty,” Geralt mutters, not surprised that Jaskier’s eyes dart up to meet his, yet completely shocked by the intensity that he sees there. He shrugs, trying for careless but not quite succeeding. “Just over four years we’ve traveled together now. Not always together, but more often than not. If you were _flighty_ , you’d have faffed off the first time you had to go two entire days without food, or after that surprise snowstorm in Povis caught us unawares and you couldn’t stop shivering for nearly a week. Your desire for adventure satiated, you’d be off to the grand courts with a few good tales at the ready for when crowds are deep enough in their cups that they don’t mind hearing about monsters and their ilk.”

“Their ilk? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that those who hunt monsters are usually little better than their prey.”

“That’s _not true_ ,” Jaskier hisses, his eyes flashing, a familiar heat sparking in their depths. “ _Little better_. That’s not true and you know it.”

Geralt inclines his head. “As you like.”

“I _do_ like,” Jaskier insists, his tone confident, strident in a way that sends a burst of warmth humming through Geralt. One of Jaskier’s hands twitches, as though he wants to reach out, as though he wants to touch, to assure Geralt of his sincerity. As if his sincerity isn’t already painfully obvious by the rigidity with which he holds himself, by the light in his eyes, by the way he can’t look away, by the way his gaze doesn’t allow Geralt to, either.

Geralt allows the corner of his lips to twitch upwards. It’s not amusing, nothing about the direction this conversation has taken is remotely amusing, but the facsimile of levity is needed, it breaks the tension. Jaskier mirrors the expression, and a clutch around Geralt’s heart that he hadn’t even noticed eases, relaxes.

“I want to be helpful to you, make your life traveling the Path easier,” Jaskier says, returning to answer Geralt’s original question. “The songs help, I know, and you know, of course, that I love writing them, but . . . I can do more.” He bites his lip and twists his hands in his lap. “If you don’t mind teaching me, I can do more. Earn my keep.”

Geralt regards him carefully, considering this. He senses no duplicity. Jaskier truly does want to help him. It can’t be that simple. It can’t be.

“You already earn enough through your performances to pay for our meals, for a good chunk of our rooms. I’ve already agreed to let you travel with me. Why do more?”

This time, Jaskier doesn’t resist the urge to reach out. He rests his hand lightly on Geralt’s arm, gives a small squeeze. No fear, no hesitation, no reticence in his scent. Absolutely none. He smiles, and Geralt has seen eclipses that haven’t been this luminous. “Because you’re my friend, Geralt.”

It’s not that simple.

But maybe it can be.

  
  


*

  
  


Awareness comes upon him slowly, the tide meandering in, taking its time, not a rush.

He can hear voices hovering somewhere around him, hushed, but animated. A man’s and a woman’s. The man says something; the woman giggles in response.

Geralt grunts. His limbs all seem like they weigh a thousand pounds each, and the thought of trying to move one of them even an inch exhausts him all over again. He settles for licking his lips, but even that requires all of his concentration and a monumental effort.

“Ah,” the man’s voice says. “He lives!”

There’s cheer in that voice, but it’s forced, sitting uneasily on top of worry and fear and distress like an ill-fitting cap. That voice, he knows that voice. That’s _Jaskier’s_ voice. Jaskier never has fear in his voice, why is he afraid? Jaskier shouldn’t ever be afraid of anything.

Geralt forces his eyes open, and that minute movement opens the floodgates and sends pain in, overwhelming his consciousness. Absolutely everything hurts.

“Ow,” he manages.

“Hmmmm,” the woman’s voice replies. “Yes, I _bet_ you hurt.”

Geralt starts to turn his head, but before he can make the attempt, he feels the slightest pressure on his shoulder, on what must be the only part of him that’s not battered and bruised, and he stays still and allows a head full of curly hair to lean over him into his field of vision.

“Glad you’re back with us, Geralt,” Triss says. She smiles, but it’s a brittle thing, just barely masking her concern.

“How’d you get here?” he asks, too tired and pain-laden to bother with pleasantries. It’s Triss and Jaskier, they won’t hold it against him.

“You’re very lucky,” Triss says, easing his head up so he can drink a series of three potions in quick succession, potions which, were they made by any other mage, would surely taste foul and be nigh-on unbearable. He doesn’t question what she gives him. Triss, Triss he can trust. And if his trust ends up being misplaced, he’s fairly sure Jaskier will attempt to avenge him.

That thought is oddly pleasing to him, and he huffs a laugh, instantly regretting it when seemingly all of his ribs scream at once in agony. Triss clucks her tongue, and Jaskier simultaneously hisses at him from his perch on the bed alongside Geralt’s other arm, and Geralt settles, deciding it’s probably best not to antagonize them too terribly much. 

“How’m I lucky?”

“Well, mainly because you were less than a day’s ride from me, and Jaskier was able to send a messenger who arrived as quickly as if all of the Continent’s creatures were pursuing him, nipping at his heels.”

“It’s possible,” Jaskier sniffs, “that I may have threatened him with meeting the business ends of a Witcher’s twin swords should he not travel with all due haste.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow and learns that he can count his eyebrows among the unfortunately small number of places on his body not causing him pain. “Thought you were supposed to be _repairing_ the reputation of Witchers?”

Jaskier frowns at him, but Geralt can tell that it’s mostly for show, that relief has replaced worry as the dominant emotion in Jaskier’s eyes, and he feels his heart beat a little stronger, a little louder, in his chest, as though Jaskier is lending him some of his own strength and vitality. “Sometimes, dear Geralt, one must yield one’s lofty goals to a higher purpose, namely: making shit happen.”

Triss tries to hide her snort of laughter behind her hand but can’t quite manage it, and not even Geralt can fight off the beginnings of a smile.

“Jaskier succeeded in making shit happen,” Triss says, carefully moving Geralt’s arm to check his bandages. “He also should feel very proud of himself for paying attention in the lessons that he’s been having with you and me and other healers in first aid and treating a Witcher’s injuries. His quick thinking in assessing your wounds and using the right potions almost certainly saved your life before I could portal to where you were.”

Geralt has discovered over the years that Jaskier is not shy and he is not bashful and he never has any difficulty accepting praise that is due him. Until now.

Jaskier, a blush rising on his cheeks that rivals the prettiest of the pink roses in the Palace Gardens of Beauclair, looks down, down at where his fingers worry a loose thread in the blanket that is close, so very close, to Geralt’s hand. It would take but a twitch and their fingers would brush. It might hurt to move the fingers of this hand, Geralt’s not sure. He _is_ sure that he doesn’t care, not one bit. The smile that he sees on Jaskier’s face when their fingers touch is worth any amount of pain.

“Yes, anyway,” Jaskier says, clearing his throat. He presses his finger against Geralt’s for a brief moment longer before clasping his hands together. The warmth of his touch, even a touch so slight, lingers. “We should all be glad that I have always been a diligent student.”

He finally looks up at that, meets Geralt’s eyes. The worry has been all but banished, a trace of Jaskier’s familiar cockiness, his self-assuredness, seeping in. He winks, roguish like the first time, but now, now there’s fondness there when Geralt rolls his eyes. Geralt knows this, and he’s not even a little bit bothered that Jaskier will see it.

“So,” Jaskier says, his voice bright, and no longer artificially so, “now that Triss’s potions have had a chance to take effect and, hopefully, it no longer hurts just to exist and you’re coherent, it’s time to bring you to account, Geralt. I know that that archgriffin was after you, but what in the name of Melitele’s ample bosom made you think that _jumping off that cliff_ was a good idea?”

Both Jaskier and Triss level him with a glare. Geralt does not quail before them and even manages to shrug without shouting in pain. Progress has definitely been made. “It was only a small cliff.”

“Only a small cliff!” Jaskier gestures wildly at Triss, a _can you believe this is what I have to deal with?_ gesture if Geralt’s ever seen one. Triss just shakes her head, commiserating. “Heavens above save me from Witchers and their dramatics!”

Geralt snorts at the idea of _Jaskier_ calling him dramatic, and he nestles back against the pillow, the sleeping draught that Triss had given him beginning to creep its way around the edges of his consciousness, turning the world around him hazy and dreamy. He falls back asleep to the sounds of Jaskier and Triss good-naturedly lecturing him about how he really ought to better develop his sense of self-preservation, and his last thought before dreams claim him is that perhaps it’s not so bad having friends who care about you and worry about you and save your life when your life needs saving.

  
  


*

  
  


It’s frivolous to while away the afternoon in this manner, Geralt knows this. Frivolous and pointless and a waste of time to boot, and all that being said, he cannot bring himself to care.

They should be pressing onwards, they should be searching for Geralt’s next contract, they should be doing something, _anything_ , that is productive. But the day is so hot and the breeze as it ruffles through the leaves above their heads is so refreshing and the tall grasses underneath his spread-out cloak are so soft and the sound of the brook as it babbles and burbles its way along is so soothing that the idea of doing something _productive_ at this very moment is downright offensive to him.

Geralt examines a primrose that has tenaciously sprung up among the grass next to him, announcing itself to the world, and as he runs the tip of a finger over a petal, he thinks that this might possibly be the most perfect day he has ever experienced.

The sun had been beating down upon them, relentless, and even Geralt had been growing weary when Jaskier, who had long since shed his doublet and rolled the sleeves of his chemise up his forearms, stopped short right in the middle of the road and said, “Geralt, I am positively _wilting_ in this heat. I shan’t take another step forward, not until we’ve had a chance to rest and let the worst of this heat pass.”

“You shan’t, hmm?”

“I shan’t. And what’s more, Roach agrees with me.”

Roach, to the surprise of both of them, whickered in response to hearing her name, and even Geralt chuckled as Jaskier let out an emphatic _thank you_ , his face upturned to the heavens.

“Look, there’s a meadow filled with flowers right there and trees just beyond it. What are the odds that we will discover a creek or a stream there?”

Geralt, impressed, had raised an eyebrow. “Good odds, actually.”

“Well?” Jaskier, gesturing expansively towards the probable water source that could prove to be their salvation, drew the word out, the consonant lolling in his mouth, as if it were loath to leave and step out into the world on such a scorching hot day.

“So we’re just going to spend the afternoon in a meadow filled with flowers, huh?” Geralt grumbled, but he had already turned Roach from the road to forge a trail through the flowers, and there was far too much heat in the air, stifling them, for him to put any of it into his words.

Jaskier, walking alongside, bent to pluck a group of daisies, carefully keeping their long stems intact. Merriment sparked in his eyes, and Geralt marveled, as he always did, at how Jaskier could find such enjoyment, such delight, from the simplest things the Continent had to offer. “I think I can find a way to stay occupied in a meadow filled with flowers.”

Jaskier had continued to gather flowers as they made their way to the stream. When they came upon it, he let out a delighted _whoop_ and gently set his collected flowers on top of his lute case at the base of a tree several paces away from the water. He then immediately stripped off his boots and, with nary a moment’s pause, his trousers, too, and, with a burst of energy Geralt hadn’t thought him capable of in the heat, he splashed through the stream, laughing and shouting and sending blessedly cool water droplets all through the air, covering Geralt and Roach both.

It had felt amazing, the cold water on his face.

(It had felt amazing, watching Jaskier be so thoughtlessly joyous on a blisteringly hot afternoon.)

Now, hours have passed, and Jaskier’s exuberance has faded into something calmer, softer, his chattering about the gloriousness of the water rushing over his toes trailing off in favor of quiet humming, light and lilting.

Geralt lies atop his cloak, stripped down to naught but his trousers in concession to the heat, and he abandons his contemplation of the primrose to investigate Jaskier’s doings, which seem to involve something complicated with the flowers and their long stems.

He watches for a moment, and he doesn’t know what he wants to focus on: the way Jaskier’s deft fingers twist the stems into something approaching a circle; the brightness of the flowers, white daisies and purple zinnias and bold violets; the expression of concentration on his face, at odds with the song he hums now, a lighthearted song, so popular that even Geralt knows it, a song about lovers and midsummer celebrations; the way his chemise gaps open across his chest, a bead of sweat traveling down his neck and over his collarbones and down down _down_ ; the flex of his bare thighs, made powerful by years of traversing the Continent on foot, as he shifts into a new position . . . .

Geralt blinks, surprised at himself, at the direction his thoughts have wandered, and he looks up only to see the tip of Jaskier’s tongue poking out of his mouth as he makes one final twisting motion and holds his creation aloft, delight flitting across his features. Geralt swallows, hard, and wishes for the surrounding grass to overtake him.

“What’s that you’ve made?” Geralt asks, and if Jaskier decides that he wants to comment on the roughness of his voice, Geralt already plans to blame it on the nap that he had fallen into after the initial excitement of finding the stream and how it’s easily been over an hour since he last had anything to drink.

“A flower crown!” Jaskier says. He bites his lip for a moment, as if contemplating a decision, and then, his mind made up, he holds it out to Geralt. “But more importantly: a gift.”

Geralt’s breath catches, and he feels warm inside, around his heart, in a way that has nothing to do with the sweltering heat of the day. When was the last time someone gave Geralt a gift, just because they could?

“You think a Witcher deserves a flower crown? Such a lovely gift?”

“I think,” Jaskier says, very seriously, “that out of all the beings on the Continent, Witchers might deserve flower crowns the most.” He shuffles closer; he’s so very close. “Please accept it.”

There’s something in Jaskier’s gaze, something . . . heavy, something _real_ , and it makes Geralt feel like the butterflies and moths that he’s seen on display in the chambers of mages and healers sometimes, affixed, pinned in place. Geralt wants to hide, wants to fade away into the grasses that surround them, wants to look away, he _desperately_ wants to look away. But he’s caught; he cannot.

He tips his head forward, holding Jaskier’s gaze all the while. Jaskier licks his lips and sets the flower crown on top of Geralt’s head, adjusting it once, twice, _just so_.

“Very fetching,” he murmurs, still leaned in so very close.

“It suits me?”

Jaskier reaches out again, adjusts the flower crown one more time, and leans back, out of Geralt’s space. Geralt releases a breath, in relief, or possibly in dismay, he’s not sure _he_ even knows.

“It suits you quite well. Geralt of Rivia, adorned in daisies and zinnias and violets, the fairest Witcher in all the land.”

Geralt wants to scoff, wants to brush the idea away, wants to proclaim its ridiculousness. But this moment is too delicate, too fragile, and perhaps there’s a tiny part of him that doesn’t mind being crowned the fairest Witcher in all the land. So he swallows the harsh words on the tip of his tongue and instead nods to the pile of flowers still sitting on Jaskier’s lute case. “And what will you do with those?”

“Why, make one for Miss Roach, of course! If the fairest Witcher in all the land has a flower crown, surely the fairest mare in all the land, the fairest Witcher’s trusty and beloved companion, deserves one too, don’t you think one would suit her?”

Geralt thinks a flower crown made of the bluebells and petunias and bright purple pansies that he can see would suit Roach very well indeed, and he says so.

As Jaskier starts weaving a crown for Roach, Geralt spies a clump of yellow flowers within squashing distance of Roach’s hooves. He looks over at Jaskier’s unadorned head, and before he can talk himself out of it, he jumps up, rescues the flowers from being trampled, and sits back down, closely inspecting every move that Jaskier makes.

(If Jaskier slows his movements down, makes every step in the process plain and deliberate, neither of them call attention to it. If Geralt curses and groans while he struggles to make his touch as he handles the flowers the most gentle it has ever been, neither of them call attention to that, either.)

When Geralt presents the wobbly and somewhat bedraggled flower crown made of buttercups to Jaskier and places it on his head, adjusting it once, twice, thrice, just to make Jaskier laugh, Jaskier’s eyes sparkle as if he has been presented with something far more precious than all of the crown jewels of Cintra.

(He wears it when they set off from the meadow, and he wears it straight into the next town, and he wears it while he performs at the tavern, and if Geralt smiles every time he looks over while Jaskier is performing and sees his handiwork perched at a jaunty angle on Jaskier’s head, well, neither of them call attention to it.

But every time, Jaskier smiles a soft, warm smile in response, and the sight of _that_ sends an answering warmth curling around Geralt’s heart, protective and comforting, and he knows that one of these days, they will no longer be able to avoid it, whatever this is growing between them.

It’s a terrifying thought, a wonderful thought, and Geralt dreads the notion, just as much as he craves it.)

  
  


*

  
  


Geralt arrives back in the clearing from his trip into the village and unceremoniously tosses a wooden practice sword onto the ground at Jaskier’s feet.

Jaskier drags his eyes upwards from the notebook in his lap, the dreaminess that can often be found there when he’s lost in a world of composition slowly giving way to confusion. “Wait. What? What’s all this, then?”

“If you’re going to insist on starting brawls in taverns,” Geralt says, his tone making it very clear that it is not outside of the realm of possibility that Jaskier will continue doing this, “then _I’m_ going to insist on you knowing how to defend yourself. Basic hand-to-hand fighting skills. Some sword fighting. Daggers, maybe, if that works better for you.”

“I did _not_ start that brawl.”

“I saw you throw the first punch!”

Jaskier abandons his notebook and jumps to his feet, his hands balled into fists on his hips. “That cretin was saying the most vile, terrible things about Witchers and about you, in particular! Awful things, all of the old prejudices, as if you haven’t singlehandedly saved that village of his three times in the last decade! I wasn’t going to stand for it, Geralt! Someone should be willing to defend your honor. And I am. And I _will_.”

Jaskier’s voice goes low, quiet, deadly serious. He has worked himself up during that speech, full of remembered righteous rage, and something about the sight of him, breathing hard, face flushing with anger, makes Geralt’s heart decide to start doing flips right there in his chest. He has become intensely familiar with this feeling over the years of knowing Jaskier. A part of him craves it, longs for it. It’s nearly unbearable.

“You don’t need to defend the honor of a Witcher,” he murmurs.

_You don’t need to defend my honor, for I have none._

Jaskier hears that which Geralt does not speak, and he scoffs. “I’ve met kings and queens, mages and sorcerers, and some of the finest academic minds of our time. You have more honor than any other person I’ve ever met in my entire life. Do I need to defend your honor? No. _Will_ I? Yes, gladly. Happily.”

He doesn’t back down. He stares at Geralt, chest still heaving, eyes pleading, expression unrelenting. _He’s beautiful like this_ , Geralt thinks, and he shakes his head minutely, as if to dislodge the thought before it takes further hold and burrows deeper in his mind.

Jaskier _is_ beautiful. But he’s not for Geralt’s rough hands. Best not to wander too far down that path.

Geralt clears his throat, breaking the fragile moment. “Still need to teach you to defend yourself, though. You’re lucky you didn’t break your hand with that first punch that you threw.”

Jaskier holds his gaze for a little longer, not entirely willing to accept Geralt’s deflection from the question of his honor and the defense thereof. He finally nods, the barest incline of his head, and a smirk slowly starts to settle on his face. “To be completely honest with you, my preferred method of defending myself in a fight is running away very fast. I’ve got these powerful thighs, after all. I’m going to use them.”

Geralt, with the utmost resolve, does not look at Jaskier’s powerful thighs. It takes nearly every ounce of strength and force of will that he possesses.

Instead, he just shifts into a ready position, his own practice sword raised. He nods at the sword on the ground, and Jaskier picks it up, mirroring his stance. “Any prior experience?”

“Some lessons as a child,” Jaskier says, and they begin to slowly circle each other in the clearing, sizing the other up. “Haven’t so much as touched a sword, except when needing to move yours around when you’re injured, since I was, oh, about twelve, maybe? When I was at Oxenfurt, I was a lover, not a fighter.”

He winks, and Geralt, in a flurry of movement and with a roll of his eyes, disarms him on principle.

“Hey!”

Geralt says nothing, simply moves back to ready. All traces of joking vanish from Jaskier’s eyes, replaced by focus, intensity.

“Again, then?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt allows himself a small smile and strikes. Jaskier manages to get his sword up in time to block the blow, if only barely, and Geralt feels his smile grow as their eyes meet over the crossed wooden blades.

_This is going to be fun_.

-

Jaskier takes to learning swordsmanship like a duck to water.

It turns out that he hasn’t entirely forgotten his earlier lessons, two decades in the past though they may be, and as weeks spent training in their spare time slide into months, he shakes the rust off, becoming more and more sure of himself every day.

It becomes a part of their daily routine when they’re traveling the Path, camping out under the stars. They wake, and after a light meal, it’s swords first. Jaskier is nimble on his feet, quick, but seemingly unwilling to strike at Geralt. He’s far more likely to feint or spin away, draw the fight out.

“If you’re in a sword fight, the goal is to _end it_ , you know,” Geralt says, more than once. “You’re going to have to land hits. Stop being afraid to try to hit me.”

He swings, a great sweeping arc, and Jaskier leaps backwards out of the way, over a log. It’s a nice move, requiring not just coordination but knowledge of the terrain of the battle, and he says so.

Jaskier flushes pink with pleasure and exertion. He dodges another blow and spins the opposite direction. “If I’m in a sword fight, and running away is not an option, I need to prolong it long enough for _you_ to get there and end it.”

“I won’t always be there,” Geralt says, landing the flat of his steel sword against Jaskier’s hip, the pressure light, just enough to acknowledge the hit. “It could be one of those times we’re not traveling together. Or I could be overwhelmed by foes. Or dead.”

Jaskier stops short and drops his hand, Geralt’s silver sword pointing toward the ground. He tightens and re-tightens his grip on the hilt. “Don’t say that,” he rasps.

“Jaskier, you know it’s a possibil--”

“ _No_. We’re not going to think about that. We’re _not_. Just . . . .” he trails off, looking away into the distance, beyond where Roach happily munches on grasses at the base of the trees surrounding this clearing. “ _Please_.”

Jaskier in distress is never a welcome sight, and after a long moment, Geralt acquiesces, and they begin again.

(That doesn’t stop him from returning to the moment, often in the dead of night, when Jaskier’s slow, even breaths in sleep are nearby, a comfort.

In his mind’s eye he sees the look on Jaskier’s face, hears the alarm in his voice, and he contemplates just why it is that Jaskier has a greater regard for _Geralt’s_ safety than for his own.

Witchers cannot promise longevity, not even with the mutagens, not with the dangerous lives they lead, but he wants to be able to promise it to Jaskier, to be able to say, _I’ll always be there_.

_For you, always_.)

If they’re making good time on their way to Geralt’s next contract, they’ll take a break after the midday meal, focus on grips and hand placement and how Jaskier should hold his hands and where to strike to land the best punch. Geralt’s sword-calloused fingers curl over Jaskier’s lute-calloused ones, molding his hands into the proper position around the hilts of swords and daggers alike.

(Jaskier acquits himself well with daggers. He likes the way they fit in his hands. He likes the feel of them tucked in his boot. He likes the way Geralt’s eyes go wide when he hits a target on a tree at twenty paces and then again at fifty.

Geralt takes every shitty contract on a winding and meandering month-long trek through Temeria to Novigrad so he can afford a finely-wrought silver dagger, the hilt inlaid with a delicate filigree and gems rivaling the blue of Jaskier’s eyes. The expression of awe on Jaskier’s face when Geralt places it in his hands, awe mixed with gratitude mixed with devotion mixed with desire, makes every minute he’s had to spend over the last month killing drowners worth it.)

They end their days fighting by swords again, exhausting each other, enjoying the way the firelight flickers over the blades, casting shadows over their faces.

Something about the dark surrounding them, the stars high above, looking down on them, makes them both playful. They laugh as they parry each other’s blows, tossing out good-natured taunts and insults. Geralt becomes freer with his praise but still has to remind Jaskier constantly, _look at my hands, not at my eyes_. Jaskier asks endless questions about tactics and maneuvers, and more often than not, they end the evening with their heads bent together over Jaskier’s notebook, sketching out a series of moves that can be adapted depending on the opponent and the location.

On those nights, Geralt looks up at the stars, winking down at him, and he smiles to himself as he closes his eyes, and he sleeps and sleeps deeply.

-

The clash of their swords rings out through the clearing and they hold that position for a moment before breaking apart, leaping back, placing distance between them once more.

It’s a hot day. Geralt had thought that they were far enough into autumn that the heat of the summer was gone for good only to be proven wrong. They fight in their shirtsleeves and as they battle, Geralt wages a separate fight within himself to keep his eyes from following the bead of sweat as it travels down Jaskier’s throat.

He mostly succeeds.

Jaskier fights aggressively today. It’s jarring at first, the break from Jaskier’s usual fighting style, but once Geralt gets over the shock, he welcomes it. The grin on his face goes feral, and he sees Jaskier match it, and they drive each other across and around and all over the clearing, the hits racking up, their eyes becoming wild with delight, the blood in their veins singing with the thrill of the fight.

_Relentless_ is a good look on Jaskier.

The thought crosses Geralt’s mind: it has _always_ been a good look on Jaskier. He’s never known a human to have such tenacity, and he’s had it from the beginning, from the moment he approached Geralt’s table in a corner of a tavern in Posada and refused to take _no_ for an answer. It was irritating at first, and somewhere along the way it became endearing, and now, now he realizes that Jaskier has been pushing from the start, working slowly but surely, chipping away at all of Geralt’s walls, creating a place for himself inside Geralt’s heart, making himself absolutely indispensable to Geralt, and _oh_ , he _loves_ it.

Geralt takes a step backwards, and his back hits a tree. His eyes widen, and Jaskier swings the silver sword, harder than he’s ever swung it, and Geralt’s steel sword goes flying from his hand, the first time Jaskier has ever disarmed him. Jaskier’s swordpoint finds Geralt’s throat, unerring, utterly steady.

Something blazes in Jaskier’s eyes, surprise, triumph, lust, exuberance, _love_ , a terrible and wonderful mixture of all of them. “Do you yield?” he whispers.

Geralt nods, just enough to feel the blade against his neck. “I do,” he murmurs back.

Jaskier licks his lips. “Are you done fighting this?”

“You deser--”

“Don’t,” Jaskier interrupts, shaking his head. He tosses the silver sword to the ground. He moves closer, so close, all of Geralt’s senses are filled with Jaskier. “Don’t say I deserve something more, someone better, someone not a Witcher. There _is_ no one better. You are the best I’ve ever known, and I want _you_ , and I love you. And if you don’t feel the same, that’s fine, I would never hold that against you, but you should know that someone loves you, that _I_ love you, that I will spend the rest of my days loving you.”

Geralt closes his eyes, and all he hears on repeat in his head is Jaskier’s voice saying _I love you_ , _I love you_ , _I love you_.

“It scares me,” he whispers, his eyes still closed, “the depth of what I feel for you.”

Jaskier laughs, bright and clear, and the sound of it, so unexpected, shocks Geralt’s eyes back open. Jaskier is so close, and the look in his eyes is so very fond, Geralt almost can’t meet his eyes.

“We fear the depths of the sea because we don’t know what’s down there,” Jaskier says, and he steps forward, reaches out, takes Geralt’s hands in his. Their fingers twine together. “Could be anything down there. Could be monsters. It scares me too,” he admits, his voice dropping back to a whisper. “What I feel for you? It’s more intense than anything I’ve ever known. I’ve loved you for so many years, Geralt, so many, and that’s only just scratching the surface. But you know what makes braving the depths of the sea, braving the depths of love, a little less scary?”

“What?” Geralt breathes, and it’s more of a sigh than an actual word.

“We’ll brave it together.” A sweet smile blossoms on Jaskier’s face, and Geralt raises their joined hands, traces a finger along that smile, Jaskier’s lips as soft as his smile is sweet. “I like our chances when we do things together.”

Geralt releases Jaskier’s hands, but only so he can rest his own on Jaskier’s cheeks. “I love you too,” he says into the shrinking space between them. “You should know that someone loves you, that _I_ love you. May I kiss you?”

“All the gods above, yes, yes you may, you bet--”

Geralt pulls Jaskier in to him, closer than they’ve ever been, and he kisses the words from Jaskier’s lips, a kiss years in the making, and it’s terrifying what he feels in this moment with Jaskier in his arms, finally, but it’s wonderful, too, and perhaps Jaskier is right. Perhaps the key to all of this, to navigating this thing called love that Geralt never in his wildest dreams ever thought that he would experience, is the fact that they will be doing this together.

  
  


*

  
  


As the afternoon slowly slides into evening, then into twilight, and then on into night, they learn each other.

They revel in it, the discovery. The _wanting_ that has lasted for so long finally giving way to the _having_. 

They learn just how to hold each other; where to touch, where to kiss, all the secret places that set the other alight. Jaskier learns that Geralt is undone by the sensation of feather-light fingertips trailing over his ribs, down his spine. Geralt learns that carding his hands through Jaskier’s hair, tugging just slightly at random, no pattern to it, makes Jaskier stop everything that he’s doing and clutch Geralt’s shoulders, pupils blown wide with want.

They learn the sounds they each make--Geralt’s breathy gasp when Jaskier hits _just_ the right spot, Jaskier’s long, low moan when Geralt kisses that place on his neck just below his ear--and once they hear them, this new music to their ears, they do everything they can to hear them _again_.

They learn what the other looks like when experiencing ecstasy, the way a dreamy smile spreads over Jaskier’s face, the way Geralt’s eyes flutter closed and he looks completely at peace. They burn these images into their minds--they will see them again, they know this, they’ve promised this--but there’s something special about these first ones, the first time they let down all their walls and allow the other to truly _see_ them: bare and bold and beautiful.

Geralt learns the feel of Jaskier’s head against his chest, as they lie sweaty and satiated, Jaskier’s sex-mussed hair pointing in every direction and all the more lovely for it. It’s a pleasant weight, a weight borne gladly and joyfully. Geralt wants to find a way to stop time; he never wants this moment of perfect closeness between them to end.

It must, of course it must. But at least if this moment has to end, he doesn’t have to be alone. Jaskier will be with him.

He brushes his fingers through the fringe of Jaskier’s hair, marveling at its softness, at the shadows it casts over Jaskier’s forehead. “I never want to stop learning you,” he whispers, the stars eternal shining down brightly upon them.

“I’ll never stop teaching you,” Jaskier replies, his voice languorous on the edge of sleep. “For’s long as I live, Geralt. For forever.”

Jaskier snuggles in closer, Geralt curls his arm tighter around Jaskier’s back, and as he carefully presses his lips to the top of Jaskier’s head--just the barest hint of a kiss--he thinks _forever sounds good_.

  
  


*

  
  


There’s no end to things he learns about Jaskier. Jaskier is infinite, and the prospect of spending the rest of his days learning Jaskier, facing a never-ending stream of new discoveries, always something more just around the corner, thrills Geralt. He eagerly catalogues every new thing that he learns, files it away, keeps it in his heart, keeps it safe.

He learns the way Jaskier feels pressed up against him in a cozy booth in a tavern, a line of heat along Geralt’s side, comforting, grounding. A reminder of _I’m here, I’m with you_ , wrapped up in colorful doublets and a voice as clear as bells.

He learns the way Jaskier looks spread out beneath him in a proper bed, the candlelight flickering over his face, down his body. The way the spicy cinnamon scent of him curls deep in Geralt’s veins, drawing Geralt in close, so close, so close that, for one hysterical second, he longs to be completely subsumed in Jaskier’s crackling warmth, the two of them become one.

(It startles him, this desire to lose himself in another. He starts to draw back, pull away, rebuild his walls, and Jaskier stops him with a gentle hand, a calming touch.

“I feel it too,” he whispers. How Jaskier knows exactly what to say, that should startle Geralt too, and maybe it does, a little bit, buried somewhere deep inside him, but mostly he just feels relief: he is not alone in this. “Don’t let it scare you. Let us build something together, you and I, something greater than both of us.”

_Together_. That sounds good, together, Geralt and Jaskier together, no longer alone.)

There’s the way Jaskier’s expression melts into one of true delight when Geralt invites him to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen for the first time. The way his good-natured complaints about the cold and the pebble in his boot and the weight of his pack trail away into nothingness at the first sight of the fortress--still majestic despite all that it has endured--leaving behind a look on his face that is at once awestruck and humbled.

(“Of all the things on the Continent I’ve seen,” Jaskier murmurs to Geralt later that night, once they’re huddled together in Geralt’s room, the fire blazing bright, furs and blankets heaped around them, “I think the sight of your home might be the most precious.”

Geralt shifts, rolls them so that he’s stretched out on top of Jaskier. Geralt kisses him, once, twice, lets the second kiss linger until they’re both breathless. “It can be your home, too.”

He learns how Jaskier sometimes cries when he’s happy-- _desperately, deliriously happy, Geralt, nothing to worry about_ \--and even though they’re tears, Geralt loves them, as he loves the heart that feels so much it created them.) 

Then, of course, there’s how Jaskier meets Geralt’s brothers, his mentor. Nothing but warm-hearted sincerity and respect for the places they all hold in Geralt’s life, in his heart. Jaskier sits them all down one-by-one to hear their stories, to write them into his songs, to turn them into heroes. Geralt doesn’t need their approval, but he finds that he wants it, craves it to the point of near desperation. And when Lambert presses another mug of ale into Jaskier’s hand and calls for another song, when Coen tosses a sword to Jaskier in the practice ring and says _let’s see what you’ve got, bard_ with a twinkle in his eye, when Eskel catches Geralt’s eye and smiles that small, private smile that means _you’ve done well_ , and when Vesemir takes him aside and clasps him on the shoulder and says, _a heart like yours was never meant to be alone_ and _I’m glad you found him, Geralt_ , something that had been raging deep within him soothes and finds rest.

Geralt learns the way Jaskier’s voice raised in song echoes off the stone walls of the keep, bringing life and laughter into every room frosty with chill, down every forgotten corridor. Kaer Morhen, with Jaskier in it, is a place transformed, and Geralt doesn’t think he could stand it if it ever goes back to how it was before.

(He whispers this fear to Jaskier, deep in the depths of night, in between gentle caresses and breathy sighs and kisses that feel as though they could last until the ending of the world.

“Oh my darling,” Jaskier whispers back, “you won’t have to experience that ever again, this I promise.”)

He learns the way Jaskier looks as they sit atop the highest parapets, bundled into every spare cloak Geralt can find, snowflakes falling upon his cheeks and eyelashes. Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier and points to the stars in the endless night sky and tells him how he travels by them, his faithful companions, and how he used to make up stories about them when he was a young Witcher, first set off upon the Path.

(It’s so cold Jaskier’s teeth chatter as he laughs, but he cares not, overcome as he is by the idea of Geralt indulging in a bit of fancy by telling himself stories of the stars.

“Are the stars your friends, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, and there’s no condescension there, none at all, just honest curiosity and love, overflowing.

“I think they must be,” Geralt replies. “They’re constant. They’ve seen me through so much. Terror. Battles I should not have survived. Loneliness. Love.” He kisses the tip of Jaskier’s nose. “I like to think they’re amused by us, mostly, but when they see that we’re happy, it makes them happy, too.”

Jaskier presses his head to Geralt’s and they both look up, up to the brightest star in the sky, looking down from almost directly above them. “I like to think that, too.”)

He learns the way Jaskier looks when he’s in love.

(He looks at himself in the mirror in his chambers: the way his shoulders are free of tension, the way his gaze grows soft and never strays far from Jaskier, the way he smiles, and smiles easily.

He learns the way _he_ looks when he’s in love.)

  
  


*

  
  


Geralt pauses on the threshold of the library. He looks down at the lute cradled gently in his hands, at the intricate filigree, at the tuning pegs, at the incomprehensible number of strings. It must be folly, what he’s about to do.

But a folly Jaskier will enjoy, he thinks. So isn’t that reason enough? 

He pushes open the door and wanders back through the shelves. He finds Jaskier in his new favorite spot in all of Kaer Morhen, a nook with tall windows looking out into a snow-filled courtyard, made cozy and comfortable with tapestries on the stone walls and mounds of pillows and blankets. Jaskier is deep in books of Witcher lore, his sleeves pushed up and smudges of ink along his hands as he takes copious notes for future songs and poems. He’s beautiful like this, acquiring knowledge so he can impart it to others, dressing it up in sweet words and a pretty melody.

Geralt feels warmth spread throughout him, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, and he thinks he finally knows what all those songs mean when they speak of _finding a home in another_.

He clears his throat and Jaskier looks up, distracted but smiling. He’s always smiling these days. “Geralt!” His smile grows when he sees his lute in Geralt’s hands. “Geralt, my darling, are you trying to tell me that you _want_ me to play for you? Oh, I _knew_ this day would come!”

“Not quite,” Geralt says. He pushes aside some of the ancient tomes, sets Jaskier’s quill out of the way, and settles in next to him.

He runs a finger down the body of the lute, his touch soft, so soft, nearly as soft as the way he had traced the curve of Jaskier’s cheek as they stayed abed that morning, lingering while entwined together, the sun’s rays burning high and bright behind the thin curtains. He places his hands on the lute in something that he hopes is an approximation of the correct position.

“I was wondering something. Can you teach me how to play?”

Jaskier inhales, sharp, surprised. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

Jaskier tilts his head, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Why?”

“It’s something you love. I want to learn about it from you.”

Jaskier smiles brighter than he ever has before, somehow, wonder of all wonders.

A Witcher, able to bring such joy to a traveling bard?

Not what he had expected, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! Come say hi on [tumblr](https://norationalthoughtrequired.tumblr.com/)!


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